


Yulya

by LonelyPsycho, MrsLadyNight



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Drama & Romance, Humor, Love/Hate, M/M, OOC, Smoking, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 11:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20674889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonelyPsycho/pseuds/LonelyPsycho, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsLadyNight/pseuds/MrsLadyNight
Summary: “Hey, Baba, listen! In abbreviation LGBT I am “G”, not “T”!”“Everybody knows you’re “G”, Yurotchka,” Bubicheva is nickering. “G” is for a great jerk! Only… it won't save you. You owe me a wish. Perform.”There’s no  escape. A deal is a deal. Mila’s won and Plisetsky’s got into a trouble. God! She’s made up such nonsense: to change into a girl and pick up a gay! And a kiss!  It’s exactly what must be done.





	1. 1.

“Hey, Baba, listen! In abbreviation LGBT I am “G”, not “T”!”

“Everybody knows you’re “G”, Yurotchka,” Bubicheva is nickering. “G” is for a great jerk! Only… it won't save you. You owe me a wish. Perform.”

There’s no escape. A deal is a deal. Mila’s won and Plisetsky’s got into a trouble. God! She’s made up such nonsense: to change into a girl and pick up a gay! And a kiss! It’s exactly what must be done. Babicheva wants to see it. But the kiss is not a real problem. Yura likes kissing with men. And all of Yura’s surrounding was in on his preferences – playing above a rainbow flag. But to dress up like a chick – this is a fucking end! You are a weirdo, Babicheva! 

Yura was sitting in his best friend’s apartment, who infuriated, irritated, constantly behaved like a pain in the ass, her mouth never shut up, and she also called him "Yurochka", and, nevertheless, Milka was his best friend. They’ve known each other since their childhood, as they lived in the same entrance, Babicheva — only one floor above. She was the first person whom he had told about his sexual orientation at thirteen, stammering, having lost all of his vaunted impudent temper because of excitement. There was nothing to worry about. Milka was delighted. That's right. A real gay friend. That's funny.

“Close your mad eyes,” the girl snorted, pointing a brush in his face in a threatening way. “Or I’ll put a concealer into them!”

Plisetsky overcame the desire to pull out all of his friend’s red hair, sighed and relaxed. Okay, it's not that bad. It's just a joke; although, of course, Babicheva is a bitch. She knows about Yura’s deep inside complexes because of his appearance but she’s still pressuring him. Perhaps maybe Mila tries to fight the fire with fire. Reverse psychology, or whatever she's reading at night?  
“I wish I had the same eyelashes,” sighs the girl, carefully applying expensive mascara. “Why does all of the best go to the fag, huh?”  
Fuck these eyelashes! If Plisetsky could choose, he would change everything in himself. He wanted to be taller and bigger than a skinny worm. He wanted a normal male face, not the fairy’s face from the tale about Cinderella. And he wanted normal bristles, not three sickly light hairs, wanted a strong chin. In short, he wanted to be at least Corey Taylor, not Taylor Momsen. But nature decided otherwise, having created from him a gentle angel. 

While Yura was a teenager, he tried to get rid of this obsessive image. He cut his hair short and wore baggy clothes. Then he gave it up, having decided it would be better to take what he had rather than what he wanted. He'd grown his hair down to his shoulder blades, rehearsed a cute fucking smile in front of the mirror, and by the time he was eighteen, he'd had no more trouble finding partners for one night.

“Hey! Whoa! Take it easy, Woman!” Plisetsky waved his hands, looking at the curling irons in his friend's hands. “That's not what we’ve agreed!”

“Calm down! It would be beautiful,” her eyes glowed enthusiastically. 

Okay. You’ve got it, you’re a red bitch. Okay, just lose next time. I will make such a wish that you will regret that you’ve even heard the name of Yuri-mother-fucking-Plisetsky!

“Fuck-me-boots!” Yura exclaimed when Babicheva took patent leather boots on a huge platform out of the closet.

“Yes, they are,” smiled Mila.

These boots were her lucky ones; she rarely wore them except when she was desperate to hook up with someone. Always worked.

They had the same size of clothes. This fact delighted Mila and irritated Yura. Milka often stole from him his cool t-shirts or hoodies. She even borrowed his sneakers once. They fit her bag, you see.

“Now you can look!” finally allowed Babicheva. Plisetsky was not allowed by the girl to look in the mirror until the image was completed. 

“Holy crap!” Moaned Yura. “Exactly, Taylor Momsen.” 

He was wearing short denim shorts, a ripped tank top that showed off a piece of his navel through the holes, and those slutty patent leather boots almost to his hips that made his legs long and slender. Smokey eyes resembled the color of a panda, tinted eyebrows made the look brighter and more languid. The lip gloss was sexy. On his head Babicheva worked hard and made a cool fleece, which made the hair more voluminous, and it fell on the shoulders with careless blond curls. All in all, not bad. Sweet rock girl. Taylor Momsen, in short. 

“Put this on.” Milka handed her friend a denim vest studded with rhinestones. “It's to give the impression that you have some boobs,” she explained.

“Let's go faster,” Yura moaned, hurriedly turning away from the mirror. Fucking shame.

Babicheva laughed, again there was a desire to pull her properly by the hair. They entered the elevator, and the girl began to photograph non-stop her disgruntled friend, praying to all of gods, if only anyone familiar didn’t enter the elevator. Especially his grandpa. He'd barely come to terms with the fact that his beloved grandson was a fag, and if he saw him like this, he'd have a heart attack. But they met no one on the way. Thanks for that.

New Milka's boyfriend’s (either Igor or Oleg) “Renault" was waiting for them at the entrance. Igor-Oleg, having seen Yura for the second time in his life and all the way he was laughing like into convulsions. Plisetsky was hoping that he would just die of laughter. 

At the club they joined a table with Babicheva's classmates, whom Yura did not know. Mila did not introduce him, the girls did not ask, but looked at him with displeasure. Milka also looked at women in such a way whom she considered beautiful. Plisetsky chuckled. Well, good. If you're gonna be a chick, you're gonna be the one the other chicks are gonna envy.

Yura did not stay long in the company. Because of the music, conversations were not heard, and the DJ rocked. He put such bomber tracks that, swallowing last of the beer, Plisetsky went to the dance floor in search of a cavalier, and to dance, because that he could do the best, dedicating his life to dancing.

The cavalier was found quickly. After a couple of minutes on the waist of the Yura there were someone's strong arms. He turned. Good option. Not a man of his dreams, but not quite decay. They began to dance together. One track, two and during the third the guy sucked him. He was a mediocre kisser. Yura opened the eyes and found Babicheva’s look. She showed "Victoria", which meant she’d seen and counted the result.

“All right, man, come on!” Yura shouted, pushing the guy away from him. “I need… to go to friends!”  
The new-made cavalier did not like it, but, having resisted a little, he finally backed off. Yura returned to the table. He finished his beer, but his mood didn't lift.

“Hey, Baba,” he shouted to his friend, who definitely went on her Igor-Oleg’s ears Milka jerked in surprise and glared at him. “Am I free? Can I go home?”

“What are you driving, asshole? The subway is closed” she answered, irritated that Yura dared interrupt her flirtation. “We'll go all together. We'll be taken by car.”

“I'll take a taxi” Yura shook his head. The hairspray made it unpleasant.

“To Lyubertsy? Are you a major?” she chuckled.

“No, not a major, but ready to fork out to wash off this shit as soon as possible!”

Babicheva shrugged, like: do as you like. Although Plisetsky was angry at his friend who’d made him go through such an unpleasant shit, but kissed her goodbye on the cheek out of habit. He waved to all of her henchmen and began to push his way through the sticky drunken bodies’ crowd to the exit. 

The street washed over him with freshness and coolness of the passing summer. Having moved away from the entrance, accidentally trying not to meet anyone familiar, Plisetsky lit a cigarette and opened Yandex Taxi. It wasn't going to be a cheap trip, and he couldn't bring himself to press the call. Maybe he really should go back and wait for Igor-Oleg? To make a decision he could not because of the guy he’d kissed. Sharply having grabbed Yuri's hand, this drunk bloke pulled him into the doorway, actively dissolving hands. Plisetsky began to fight back and yell at the asshole, but he was surprisingly strong. The man closed his mouth, pressed against the wall and began to rummage under his clothes.  
"When he discovers that I'm not a woman, rape won’t be enough," flashed in Yura's head "He’ll kill me! Fuck!"

Something had to be done. Plisetsky convulsively tried to escape and bite, but the grip was iron. He had already mentally said goodbye to the life, cursing Milka and her idiotic ideas, when there was a roar of the motorcycle engine, and one sharp movement tore off the man away from him. While Yura tried to catch his breath, the man managed to get the fuck out of him and run away.

“Hey, are you okay?” asked a pleasant low voice, and Yura looked up at his hero.

He was... the way Yura dreamed he would be himself. Taken aback by the fact that in front of him there is something unrealistically perfect (in his view, of course), Plisetsky nodded weakly.

“Are you alone?” asked the hero, leaning on his motorcycle. "What's your name?"

“Ju... Julya,” * almost whispered the boy, forgetting how to breathe.

“Otabek,” smiled the hero. “ Shall I take you home?"

“Yep. “


	2. Chapter 2

The road took catastrophically little time, although, of course, Plisetskiy only thought so. He would give a lot to cling to the biker's broad back as long as possible and feel steel in his muscles. But they, unfortunately, arrived. Otabek stopped right at Yurа’s house, gallantly helped get off the bike, which at first aroused the guy’s bewilderment. Then he came to his senses. Julia was he. Oh, well.

“Do you want to take a walk?” asked Yura. Words spontaneously flew from his lips. He absolutely had no idea what he was doing and why he was doing it, he just wanted to be in the amazing guy’s company just a little more. “Not for long ...” he added plaintively, because Otabek did not answer immediately.

“I do,” he finally smiled. “I’ll just park ... somewhere.”

It was as usual bad with parking spaces but the biker found the place at last where to squeeze the motorcycle. Yura pointed towards the playground, where there were benches, and they could just sit and chat. He already wanted to flop on the bench, as usual on a grand scale, but Otabek stopped him, took off his jacket and laid it under his ass.

“You may catch a cold, Julia,” he explained to bewildered Plisetskiy.

“Yeah, right,” Yura answered hoarsely, mechanically taking out a pack of cigarettes. The biker did not seem to like it. “I just can't quit,” Plisetskiy muttered. “You don't smoke, do you?”

Otabek shook his head. Damn it.

In the light of the lantern Yura, delightfully dragging on, began to examine his "hero". He was definitely non-Russian, Uzbek or Kazakh, or someone else from Central Asia. But, it seemed, he also had Russian roots, or maybe he didn’t. In any case, the guy seemed to Plisetskiy the most beautiful one in the world, such one that he was already nauseous. He always liked everything oriental. Always liked brunettes with dark eyes. Mila believed that it was some kind of deviation to drag to non-Russian men, but Plisetskiy was perhaps the only Muscovite for whom they "came here" in high.

“Kazakh?” Yura suddenly asked when the silence became awkward.

“Yes.”

“I guessed it!” he perked up.

“You have such a voice,” said Otabek, “It’s very…”

“Like a guy, yes,” Yura agreed, frantically seeking an explanation. “It always has been. Awful, huh?”

“Well, no. It's even ... sexy. Sorry,” he charmingly embarrassed.

“Thank you ... Ota ... Can I shorten your name?”

“You can call me Beck.”

“Beka, you are a hero, do you know that?”

“Really? No.”

“Yes exactly you are. The hero has to be kissed.”

What are you talking about, Plisetskiy? Otabek looked at him dumbfounded. Damn, damn! You are Julia, Yura. And Julias don’t behave like that. Girls don't hang on guys they like. They flirt! But you are, like a whore, in your whore’s boots! Yura suddenly thought that it was very difficult to be a girl. It was easier with guys. No troubles. It’s like “I like you. I want to lay you right here on this bench”. Yes - yes. No - no. That’s all.

However, there was nowhere to retreat. It was necessary to act and save Julia’s honor, so Plisetskiy a little hesitantly smacked Beck in the cheek, trying, like, to innocently pat eyelashes. Otabek, it seemed, smiled, relaxed.

“What do you do, besides saving the girls on a cool bike?” Plisetskiy tried to have a casual conversation.

“You are the first girl saved,” Beck smiled. “In general, I do a lot of things. Today I was a DJ at that club.”

“Wow, that music in some century wasn’t shitty!” Probably the girls don’t say that. Or do they? Tighten yourself, Yura. Remember Mila with her men. How does she behave?

“Um, thanks. Do you often go to clubs?”

“Well…”

If I say “yes”, he will decide that I am a whore and a crush. And Yulia did not need this. What Yulia really needed was still a mystery. But she was definitely desperate for the biker to like her. 

“No, not really. So what else do you do, DJ?”

“We have a car repair shop,” Beka answered, looking at Julia very strange, damn it. And not a damn thing was clear in those eyes. Does he like me? Or not? “Father and brother opened it. I help them several times a week. But I mainly repair motorcycles. Cars - this is for them.”

“The family is big, isn’t it?”

“Yes. There are many people,” he was embarrassed.

“It's cool. I live only with my grandad.” 

Suddenly, Plisetskiy decided not to play it out and just be himself. To say almost everything as it was, just about himself in a feminine gender. And the conversation went better. Otabek Altin, that was his full name, at first he was very surprised by Yulia’s rich abusive supply, but then he somehow got used to it and even said that it was charming.

They chatted for a couple of hours. Plisetskiy found that in addition to music and motorbikes, Otabek was fond of sports, skated well and could fist a hundred times. He had two younger sisters and an older brother. Mom was a housewife, not working. The family was friendly, but Beck lived separately, because he needed peace and quietness to create music. Lived in the center in his own apartment.

Yura said that he was fond of dancing. Not just keen on, but studying at the Institute of Arts at the choreographic faculty. The fact that he had performed professionally previously, was not mentioned, Beck would be able to google it. Mentioned that he dreamt of opening his own dance studio. Beka, it seemed, was impressed.

Then Otabek, feeling sad, said that he had to go – work. In the depths of Plisetskiy’s soul something snapped. Is this the fucking end?

“Can you leave me your contacts?” asked Altin, having approached the motorcycle already.

“Is viber suitable for you?” Asked Yura, convulsively thinking, that VK was falling away.

“Yes, it is great.”

They exchanged numbers, and then Plisetskiy once again scored on femininity, pulled the biker to himself with his leather jacket, stood on tiptoe and kissed the guy. At first, Altin was once again frenzied by Julia’s pressure, but he quickly gave up and deepened his chaste kiss. He pressed the “girl” to himself, carefully, but imperiously holding his waist, and Yura tightened his grip on his legs. The body did not respond adequately to that guy. He wanted Beck right there on this bike. He had to tear himself away from those impossible lips so as not to overwhelm the Kazakh even with an arisen cock.

“I'll call tomorrow,” Beka breathed out, looking at Yura with crazy eyes.

“Yeah ...”

When he left, Plisetskiy trudged home on cotton legs, cursing uncomfortable shoes and the whole situation, hoping that he would manage to sneak into the room unnoticed by his grandfather. What should he do next? There was no answer, but he fell asleep with a smile, still feeling Otabek's taste on his lips.


	3. Chapter 3

“And now do with me the same thing as yesterday, only less defiantly” said Yura, throwing Mila’s things on her bed.

“What?” The girl thought she had misheard.

“Make me a girl! Again!” Growled Plisetskiy. “What is not clear?” He had said normally.

But for Babicheva, of course, it was not enough. He had to tell her everything, and, of course, her first question was:

“Yura, are you a moron or what?”

She tried to appeal to his mind, but after Beck’s call, who had suggested meeting in the evening and going to the cinema, there was no mind left. Yura just wanted to see him again. At least once.

“You don’t understand,” Plisetskiy began to make excuses, looking at Andy Birsak’s photo on the wall. Mila also had some passion for rock musicians. “He's ... fucking awesome. He’s... well... as I need. Ideal.”

“I understand that, I don't understand...”

“ Do you remember why I have broken up with Vitya?”

Although, they had not meet really. They hadn’t even have sex, because ...

“Because you are both convinced doms, and none of you was going to offer your ass,” Mila rapped out. “Everyone remembers. Only this is not about that ...”

“Yes, exactly” Yura did not listen, bending his line stubbornly. “But with Beka, it's different. I would offer anything for him. If I had two asses, I would have offer both, understand? I’ve fallen in love, Baba! At first sight!”

“Yura,” Babicheva sighed and sat next to him. “I understand everything, but relationships must not be started with lies. And how are you going to get out? When it comes to bed.”

“I will say that I am a virgin!”

“Will you be a virgin to forty?”

“I do not know! I don’t know!” Yura exclaimed exhaustedly. “Then I'll figure it out. We’ll just go to the movies. Make me a girl, please, Mila, please?”

“Okay. But I do not approve!” She strictly shook her finger.

If she had understood anything. If the man of his dreams demanded Julia, then he would be Julia. Plisetskiy’d even shaved his legs, because there was no fuck-me-boots then. Instead, there were just sneakers that suited well with Milka's plaid fly-up sundress, worn on a white T-shirt. Almost a Japanese schoolgirl. It was not vulgar, but it excited.

That time the makeup was easy. Babicheva added a few dark shadows and mascara, which made his look more expressive and brighter, but no more panda. A bit of foundation for face, a little lip gloss. As Yurka had requested. It was not vulgar.

“What are we doing with your hair?” asked Mila, looking around her creation. The pretty girl.

“Make me such shuh-shuh,” Yura showed a wave with his hands. “Like after braids. Well, shuh-shuh.”

“Corrugation, you mean?” guessed the girl in "shuh-shuh."

“ Probably. Well, in waves ... like after braids.”

Having sighed heavily, Mila began to change nozzles in the curling iron, periodically muttering what idiot Yura was and that he was getting involved in a very bad story. She even said that when Otabek knew everything and beat him in the dark gateway, she would be damn right.

“Shall I leave you in the coffin as a guy or a girl then?” She specified, just in case.

“He will not kill,” Plisetskiy laughed with all his thirty-two teeth, looking at Julia. She went out pretty. A sweetheart and still a little cheeky. A sweetheart with rock-and-roll in her eyes. Beck could not help but fall in love. “And when he falls in love so that he won’t be able to live without me,” Yura announced a crazy plan, “I’ll gradually prepare him ... then I’ll tell him everything. And he will understand that gender is all bullshit. And we will live happily ever after. The end!”

“This is definitely the end,” Mila shook her head sympathetically. “You’re a crazy frog.”

In response, Yura only squealed joyfully. Beka wrote that he was waiting at the entrance. Having kissed Babicheva and said “Goodbye”, Plisetskiy rushed off to the street, having scored on a stunned neighbor whom he faced. Well, that’s all, his grandfather would tumble him such cunts! But that would be later. All would be later.

Otabek showed up next to some red Peugeot. He was standing at the door with a huge bouquet of flowers. The bouquet was unusual, not banal roses, but multi-colored peonies, skillfully combined. And where did he only get them at the end of summer?

Before Yurka’s boyfriends had also tried to give him flowers. With those flowers they had received in response on faces. But Julia was delighted with the bouquet. And Yura himself too. Beck could do anything.

“Peugeot?” Plisetskiy was surprised when Otabek gallantly opened the door of the red expensive car in front of him. “Where has the bike gone?”

“This is not my car,” Beka said, sitting behind the wheel. “We fixed it, we need to check if everything is in order. Moreover, I was sure that you would put on a skirt ... and for the bike it’s not the best clothes.”

And Babicheva had offered jeans, but Yura explained why not. Nothing tight, nothing that would be able to show his ... joy of meeting. Milka had been spitting for a long time and hadn’t even want to give him her things, but Plisetskiy was insistent, it’s easier to agree than to argue.

“Why were you sure?” tensed Yura.

“It’s a sin to put such legs in trousers,” Becka simply answered. “You look beautiful, Yulya.”

The heart thumped, foreshadowing the fucked fucked up, Yura uttered gratitude, driving away thoughts of that abyss into which he was flying at that moment, having jumped into it with some run.

Otabek paid for tickets and popcorn, which really froze. Yura even tried to say something about equality and feminism, but Beka, having smiled at the corners of his lips, said that if he had invited, then he would pay, and Yura didn’t want to argue with him anymore, because he was so cool and beautiful, and if he wanted something, then let him. The only thing that Plisetskiy had not taken into account was the opportunity to stumble on his acquaintances, and, as by the law of meanness, the faces of the guys from the institute appeared in front. Urgently Yura had to, albeit reluctantly, to remove his hand from Otabek’s warm palm and undo the sneakers, prudently having turned away.

In the cinema, thank God, he could not be afraid - it's dark after all. Yura insisted on some horror film and the last row. Places for kisses, all things. He didn’t voice the last one, but Beck seemed to have understood him that way, judging by the fact that he smiled faintly. In general, that Kazakh behaved extremely restrained and careful, like good guys should behave with girls. He was attentive and careful. It touched, although Plisetskiy, if he had the will, would have gladly missed that stage and quickly moved to where they’d found out, taken the situation for granted and ended up in bed. It just burned him from the inside. Beck’s smell only made it foggy and empty in his head, and the blood was boiling and surging to something that should not be rushed. Fortunately, the skirt was free. In general, Yura liked skirts. So... fresh.

“Have you watched the first version?” Otabek whispered in his ear, and Yura swam, almost forgetting to answer.

“Yeah, both parts, and you?”

Beka nodded. They went to watch “Pets’ Cemetery”, because Julia and Yura were King’s fans. At first, Plisetskiy simply spread over his chair and blissed out at Altin's presence in such an intimate proximity, but then the great commentator still attacked him. Every minute he found inaccuracies, mistakes and flaws in the film, when he saw dry twigs hanging directly under the lanterns on the wall, he said that soon they would all be burned to hell rather than resurrected zombies having time to soak them.

“Yes, wash this cat at last, well, seriously! Therefore, he is furious that he has been walking in blood for a week! Well, tell them, Beck!”

But Beka seemed to have long lost the essence of the narrative, because he was fascinated by Yura. That was, Julia. Their fingers were woven from the very beginning, but then that dark bewitched look knocked out the whole spirit from Plisetskiy. However, Altin, as usual, was waiting for something.

“Come on, kiss me,” begged Yura-Julia eyes.

Otabek surrendered and reached for a chaste kiss. But Julia was still Yura, so chastity was quickly left behind. Soon Plisetskiy got to Beka’s knees and remained there until the last shot. They practically did not interrupt the kiss, but Otabek did not open his hands, which was very helpful. And although Yura put on the narrowest cowards in the world and the most dragging-in pantyhose (!), his unhappy cock, compressed from all sides, was eager for battle. The pain in the groin spoiled the sensation of what was happening, but the heart stopped beating and was ready to tear the chest and to jump out and dance tango.

The lights were turned on in the hall, and Yura had to crawl away from Altin, who had already sniffed Yurka’s hair for several minutes and whispered in his ear how wonderful they smelt, and it was soft and incredible to the touch. When they left the room, they were both slightly shaken from side to side. Plisetskiy was even a little scared. Such a reaction to a stranger was at least abnormal. He looked in the mirror and staggered back. The pupils were huge and crazy, just a bruised, inadequate look. But Beck didn’t look any better. Head over heels in love and happy. From that Yura wanted to dance, and still hang himself.

When Otabek said that the continuation would not work, because Yura was counting on some walk and the night spent licking all Altin, he did not want to dance anymore. Just hang himself.

“I'll take you home,” Beka said, as a sentence, “I need to work. But will I see you tomorrow?” He asked with such hope that besides a hoarse "yes" there was nothing to answer. “Go to the rink?”

“The rink?” asked Yura, trying to calm the hum in his head. “I’ve never skated ...”

“I will teach,” Otabek promised. “And I won’t let you fall, I promise.”

Well, if he promised, then of course.

At the entrance, they had been kissing for another fifteen minutes, after which Beck almost with pain broke away from "girl"’s lips and said that he was already indecently late, and went away.

Grandfather hadn’t slept yet, so Plisetskiy came to Mila’s place, giving away her belongings and regaining his former appearance. Locked in the girlfriend’s bathroom, Yura jerked off to a loss of pulse.

“I feel good and bad,” he said, returning to Babicheva, not a bit embarrassed when it became clear from her face that she knew what he had been doing there for so long.

“What?”

“I feel good and bad at the same time,” Plisetskiy explained. “Creepy.”

“Yura, damn it” Mila said worriedly.

“Tomorrow we’ll go to the rink. Let's pick my outfit in advance…”


	4. Chapter 4

Yura bit the inside of his lower lip to the blood, because there was no other way to stop uncontrolled thoughts that arose because of Otabek’s contemplation, who was standing on his knees and lacing his skates lovingly. Today Julia put on jeans, because she wasn’t an idiot. It would be stupid to go to the skating rink in the skirt. Over Mila’s skinny jeans, was put on a long white shirt, reaching to the hips, in short, hiding precisely those places that were worth hiding. There was even a bra under the shirt. And even though there was nothing to put in it, it was necessary to create a hint of at least some roundness.

That time, Babicheva was really angry. She refused to do his makeup, as she said, because she wasn't going to take the sin on her soul. So, he had to do it himself. It turned out not directly super, but not so bad. The hair somehow managed to be tied in a simple high tail, but it seemed that Beck liked it that way.

They did not meet the day after the first date "Sorry, Yulya, work issues" And the next after the next "I miss you too, but no way." And, finally, Altin was here saying a lot of compliments, presented flowers, orchids in this time (the grandfather was still angry because of peonies). He simply was here, nearby. The same as before – incredible.

While Plisetskiy was languishing in anticipation of their meeting, they were corresponding a lot. Yura made his real page VK closed, instead of his smug mug he put a photo of Petya, just in case. He even checked if he and Otabek had common friends. There was one dude whom Yura had not recognized. So he deleted him. The same thing happened with Instagram. But Altin’s profile of VK Yura studied along and across. There were few photographs, mainly a motorcycle, cars and musical gizmos. His beloved, where Beka at the DJ console in a white T-shirt and large headphones, smiled and showed a thumb up to the camera, Plisetskiy saved and set as wallpaper on the phone and laptop. The two days that they didn’t see each other, Yura practically lived on his page, listened to Otabek’s music, read Otabek’s posts.

During their extensive correspondence, it turned out that Altin also worked part-time in one bar for bikers. When he managed everything, and why he needed so much work, it remained a mystery. Although it was more or less clear. The family was big, he needed to help them. Yura himself also tried to help his grandfather, sometimes conducting dance classes for kids in Nikiforov's studio, but it was small, and often Victor managed it himself. Although he promised that by the beginning of the school year there would have been more groups and more work. In summer, all sections were stunted. They were engaged only in particularly stubborn ones, and such, as you know, were not denser.

“Not too tight?” Otabek returned Plisetskiy from heaven to earth. “Move your foot. It should not hang out, but it should not be very tight either.”

“It seems good, thanks ...”

“Then let's go?” Beka nodded to the half-empty rink.

Yura swallowed. Going out onto the ice was scary, but his Kazakh took his hand so confidently that fears disappeared. As they always did with all the brakes, when it came to Otabek.

“Do not be afraid.” said Otabek, knowingly leaving for the ice. “I will keep you, even if you fall. Trust me.”

“I do. But you trust me in vain” Yura thought sadly, but stepped towards Altin, as, however, as usual.

The legs began to part, and Yura gripped Otabek with a steel grip.

“And you are strong,” said Beka. “Do not be afraid. Bend your knees a little, like that!”

Plisetskiy tried to grab Otabek weaker. Anyway, the fear passed quickly, and Yura began to do it well, especially for the first time. Within a few minutes, he asked Beck to let him go, although he naturally liked his strong arms at the waist, but he really wanted to try to skate without support. He succeeded, and soon Yura began to receive genuine pleasure. And when his vigilance weakened, he lost his balance and, by all laws of physics, had to crash on the ice painfully, but his Kazakh, somehow, was close by and did not let him fall.

“Hush, kitten, everything is fine,” he began to soothe in a gentle voice, looking into Yura’s dazed eyes, “I’m here and I won’t let you fall.”

At this moment, a photographer skated up to them, called them a beautiful couple and offered to take a picture. They posed, and after Beck even bought them pictures, although they cost unreasonably expensive. Their first joint photo. No, the first joint photo of Julia and Otabek. It was sad.

“Well done,” Altin encouraged, when, after an hour and a half of cutting circles in the arena, they drilled in a cafe. “I still cannot teach my sister. And you were like a figure skater in a past life.”

Yura was blossoming and eating potatoes in a rustic way. Then it was time for Otabek’s portion. Mila hated him for it and called a witch for being able to eat fast food and not get fat. 

“Maybe give up dancing and go to figure skating?” asked "Julia" with her mouth full. “Or was I late?”

He’s almost used to talking about himself in a feminine gender.

“Yes, for fifteen years, at least” Beka laughed, giving “Yulia” his cake too. “Julia” did not refuse.

“And where did you learn to skate so cool yourself?”

“Well,” Altin said with a slight sadness in his eyes, “I was engaged in figure skating in the past”

“?”

“Yes, professionally, like ... But at thirteen I left.”

“Why?”

“Well, I am wooden, Yulya,” he answered and sipped his coffee, “there is not enough power and desire. I need a ballet, which is not mine at all. When I was sent to a younger group ... in general, I just realized that there was nothing to catch. All motivation somehow disappeared. But. the parents were happy” he smiled. “The son-engineer is better than a figure skater.”

Yura thought it was a pity. Otabek on ice looked amazing and without any ballet there. And he, Yura, understood something in ballet.

“It's sad,” Plisetskiy said out loud. “My boyfriend is a figure skater, that sounds cool. Oh,” he said. “We haven’t ... discuss it yet and ... sorry.”

“Do not apologize,” the Kazakh covered his hand with his. “I like it, let's leave it like that?”

“Yes, let’s do that” Yura blossomed even more, if that was possible. “I also really like it. And, Beka,” he croaked, almost hating his voice for sounding so rude, “next time I teach you what I can.”

“ Mmm?”

“Salsa.”

“Wow.”

“Do you want to dance salsa with me, Otabek Altin?” Plisetskiy shot his eyes, sinking to undisguised flirtation.

“With you, Julia, I want anything.”

The main thing then was not to go in cycles, that he wanted everything, anything with Julia. With Julia, fucking, not with Yura! But not thinking about it was getting harder and harder.

The meeting broke off with the next “Sorry, work.” Plisetskiy was completely upset.

“Tomorrow is a day off,” Otabek tried to cheer up his “girlfriend”. “I'm all yours.”

They were standing at the entrance and saying goodbye. That day, Beka was on the motorbike again and looked divine. Indecently good. And "all Yulya’s." Plisetskiy was already beginning to hate that bitch. Otabek was holding “her” sad face in his palms and kissing. He was looking at "her" as if he could not see enough. He was in love. So strong in love with Julia.

“Salsa first,” Beck continued to whisper comforting, “then we can go to me, have tea, watch a movie ...”

“Oh, Beka ... I,” Plisetskiy began to think frantically. How to refuse that he was not offended? And he didn’t decide that Yulia was a dynamos woman. Menstruation? Right! Girls had a universal justification for everything - those days.

“So, stop,” Altin did not give him anything to say. “Saying tea and film I mean tea and film. Truely.”

“Simply…”

“We are not in a hurry,” he said in Yura’s lips, which made the guy completely fool. “Everything will be when everyone is ready for this. Do not worry about this at all. I'm old fashioned about this.”

He extracted a bunch of orchids that was not hurt at all and their photograph from a backpack. Kissed again and left only when his "Julia" disappeared behind the door of the entrance.


	5. Chapter 5

“Go and look who has come there” Daniyar said at the very moment when Otabek said already goodbye to his older brother and was trying to slip out of the garage as soon as possible.

If he was late, then Julia would yell. By the way, obscene and loud. Although, there was definitely something in it. Otabek hated people swearing for no reason, especially girls, but for Yulia it turned out to be somehow charming.

“I’ve already left!” Otabek tried to get out, but his brother, smeared with fuel oil, looked out from under the hood and looked so that he had to obey. It was rather late, so who could have been a visitor there?

While Otabek was walking to the makeshift reception desk, he managed to write Julia a message: "Pizza or sushi?"

“Well, I don’t fucking care, the main thing is more” his girlfriend answered “gently” as usual.

Altyn Jr. grinned. Lord, she was inimitable and somehow impossible.

Of course, Otabek could not call himself a burnt heartthrob, but he had some relationships with girls, a couple even with some claim to seriousness, but Julia could not be closely equated with any of the former. She was a "boy in a skirt" - that's what they say about such girls. The voice was rude, the expressions were even rougher. Her behavior constantly surprised him and balanced forever on some edge. That she was terribly bold and assertive: the first climbed to kiss, the first confessed love. But sometimes, on the contrary, she was too sandwiched.

For example, they didn’t manage to dance that salsa, because suddenly Julia was fading, said that he was too close; and all that came of it was a chaste waltz. And then for a short time, the girl directly dragged him to the street more likely, and then for a long time she grabbed the air with her always weathered and bitten lips.

Whatever you took in Yulia, there were only poles around. She was very strong for a girl, sometimes how much she clung, it’d been already scary; but, at the same time, she had some unreal mesmerizing flexibility and grace. Sometimes it seemed that she didn’t weigh anything at all, and that lightness, bordering on fragility, made him constantly want to protect her and hide from everything in the world.

When Daniyar first saw Julia’s photo, he spit out - as flat as a board. And what did Beka find in her? Then he zoomed in, examined her face. Yes, the angelic face, of course, and that blonde hair.

But Otabek was most fascinated by the eyes. Huge, burning. Eyes of a killer. Soldier’s, warrior’s ones. Not feminine at all. In principle, in Julia, of the traditionally girlish style, there were only skirts, but her unreal, touching tenderness, the manner of biting her lips and blowing naughty hair off her face filled the gaps in femininity most of all. She was very strange. Very extraordinary and unusual, but Otabek fell in love with her at first sight, like a schoolboy. And then only Julia occupied his head. In the morning, in the afternoon and in the evening. Julia, Julia, Julia.

Both Otabek’s brother and father constantly teased him about his sudden and strong love, but were glad that at least someone managed to dispel the "youngest"’s eternal gloom. Otabek, as usual, passed jokes past his ears, knowing firsthand that the less people you dedicated to your relationship, the happier they were. And the relationship. And people.

And that day, their couple had their first anniversary - a month together. They did not plan for something super special, but simply had to order food, watch a movie at Beck’s house, as his girlfriend called him. True, Otabek again had to swear oath to Julia that he would not make any creeps. Not that he didn’t want it, of course, he wanted it all the time. But Altyn was brought up differently, and he knew how to observe boundaries. Especially with those who were dear to him, and Julia was dear.

“Oh, hello” said Otabek, seeing a familiar visitor who immediately began to annoy with his appearance less than a stranger would do “What, Vitya” he smiled, “ did the post cross the road again?”

Nikiforov grimaced, smiled back in his aristocratic manner, and put his hands in the pockets of an expensive coat.

“Hello, Altin. No, it didn’t. Just change the oil, can you?”

“It is possible, why is not? Wait a sec.”

Otabek began to rummage through pieces of paper in which he did not particularly understand. Usually that was done by the girl, Christina, who had been working there for more than a month. She knew what and how much it cost, wrote out checks and invoices, and Otabek could calmly do what he could do - motorcycles. But Kristina took sick leave, and for the third day they had been going crazy, trying to figure out where and what.

While Altin was delving into the nightstand, his phone began to vibrate persistently, for sure, Julia was freaking out that he was delaying again. Well, nothing, usually she only freaked out over the phone, but when they met, changed her anger to mercy, smiled so impossible, and then pulled Otabek by the collar of the T-shirt and kissed so that the spirit knocked out.

“Listen, Altin” Nikiforov suddenly asked in a strange voice. “Why is my ex calling you? And why in the photo he looks like a girl ... That is, of course, he always looks like a girl, but here right in full dress...”

“What?” Otabek leaned out from the table and looked at Nikiforov as an idiot. “You are confusing something, this is Julia. My girlfriend...”

“Julia?” Victor grunted, without asking, took Otabek's phone and carefully looked at the photo. “No, Altin. This is definitely not Julia. I recognize Plisetskiy in the dark from behind, not like with the make-up.”

“Very funny…”

“But I don’t laugh,” Nikiforov answered, took out his own mobile phone, opened the list of his VK friends and types: Yuri Plisetskiy, then poked Otabeka with a sympathetic expression on his face with a screen.

Beka swallowed, looked through the photos, from which he looked frowning, then smiling ... definitely a guy who had his Julia’s face. That was, that guy was very feminine, and even rather androgynous, it was not difficult to confuse him with a girl, but ... still, a guy. Yura. Plisetskiy.

“I don’t understand,” Otabek growled hoarsely, flipping through a few photos in the second circle. “Is that a joke?”

Vitya shook his head, said that he himself did not understand anything, and in general, apologized that he’d got into it. He just saw Plisetskiy’s familiar face of in an unfamiliar form, so he blurted out. Nikiforov retreated so quickly that Otabek did not even remember that he had not begun to change the oil. What nonsense, what kind of crap in general?

***

Milka had not talked with Yura for a long time. She said immediately: either you end this performance, or I stop talking to you until you change your mind. It was not possible to finish the performance, so Plisetskiy, although he had been missing his friend, continued to drown more and more in false and wrong relationships.

With his grandfather, too, everything was bursting at the seams. When they had a fight with Babicheva, and Yura had to buy cosmetics and girls' clothes, which, as it turned out, cost fucked money, then talking with grandfather became a matter of time. If the fact that Yura preferred boys to girls, his grandfather could still understand a little bit, then the game of dressing up could not be explained. But the grandfather did not scream, did not scold, no. He just also stopped talking with his grandson, only offered to go to his mother in Europe. “They understand it better there, Yurochka!” Yeah, well.

To throw his grandfather? Although, maybe he would have been better if difficult and incomprehensible Yurochka had been away. What about Beck? How could Plisetskiy be without him? It's all because of him. Also to his mother ... yeah, she didn’t need him. Or they both didn’t. They said goodbye when Yura was eight, and her mother decided that she was an impossible singer and would certainly be needed by someone there in Europe. She was clearly not needed by producers or record companies, but one well-equipped man saw and married her and she was in chocolate. She called Yura twice a year, for his birthday and New Year, sent some money and some unnecessary garbage. And it suited everyone.

Plisetskiy, looking in the mirror, almost professionally shaded blush. Corrected the smeared eyebrow with another brush. Smoothed the pleats on the pleated skirt. He tried to give his face more smoothness and femininity, however, that was not much needed. His face was a transvestite's dream. And plastic was not needed, damn it. He still did not like all that, but he liked Kazakh Otabek Altyn. “Like” - that was a wrong word. Yesterday, he, or rather Julia, said the coveted three words. And Beck, blurted out "me too." “Me too” was not the same as “I love you,” but at least something. Probably Beck said it out of politeness. Because they had been together for only a month... The whole month. The whole month of lies. But what to do?

Still, Yura tried to do something, but failed after failure. He, or rather Julia, periodically tried to talk about LGBT people, but Otabek masterly changed the subject. And one day, when Julia did not allow the thread of the story to be changed, they almost scolded. Beck was not directly a homophobe, of course, but it was difficult to call him tolerant. And he did not, in general, under any circumstances see himself in relationships with a guy.

“But if I were exactly the same, but a guy?” Plisetskiy played with fire. “Who cares?”

“It would not be you anymore, that's what,” - snapped Beka, and Yura did not try again.

Everything was clear. That’s, it was not clear, but understandable. Yes, he was the same person. The same hair, the same eyes and legs with hands, the same voice. But still, it was foolish to say that gender was not important when it was important to him. Well, his cock didn’t get up for girls! And that’s it. And Becky’s didn’t for men. Yura often thought, if Altin turned out to be a girl. Exactly the same, but a girl. Could he? He wanted to say “yes”. He could. But he did not really know.

Yura reached for the powder box when Otabek finally deigned to call back. Probably, he was leaving. Good. Julia was almost ready. A little powder and the left eye to correct, otherwise it seemed that the eyeliner was not symmetrically laid down.

“Be-e -eka,” called “Julia,” like a lamb. “Have you left the garage?”

“Who is Yuri Plisetskiy,” thunder thundered in the clear sky. “Mmm? Yulenka? Or, Yurochka? How do you like more?!” in such a voice, the Kazakh never spoke with him.

That was the end.


	6. Chapter 6

Yura sprinkled scrambled eggs with some green onion, as Otabek did. Added cheese. Increased fire. To count to ten, cover and wait. But not for long, you needed to remove the lid in time, so that the eggs turned out to be liquid and ready, slightly covered with a white film, and inside the yolk. You could poke bread in it. This was pure Altin's recipe. He cooked mediocre, but Beck’s scrambled eggs were one hundred percent. And hot sandwiches were cool too. And coffee with all kinds of cool condiments. It was necessary to drink more while there was an opportunity. There was no more.

“Yura”. 

Mila, apparently, sensed another threat of flooding. Or she was afraid that Plisetskiy would oversalt eggs with his snot, but he was not going to. So darted a couple of times.

“You, well ... don’t get sour”, Babicheva again said. “We’ll eat, then we’ll buy ice cream. Everything will be fine ... later”.  
Babicheva knew what she was talking about, she experienced parting with the same, the one and only more often than the “only one” realized that he was “the only one”. Plisetskiy was just the one who cheered, bought ice cream, drove to clubs for the next "the only one." They switched roles for the first time, because Yura had never had that “one”. There were those he fucked. He did not meet and did not part with them. With them, everything was easy and simple.

They reconciled with Mila as soon as the last conversation with Otabek took place. Well, how's the conversation? In general, Beck did not listen to anything. Just politely asked not to call again. Yura, of course, called. For a week then, a hundred times a day, however, he was no longer answered. The subscriber was not a subscriber, but that did not stop. Yura also wrote to Otabek in all social networks, even VK, then from this own page. He tried to convey in details and without emotions the idea that it was not a mockery or a joke, it'd just happened. Fell in love, and everything got out of hand. His messages had been read. More precisely, they no longer burned as unread, but it was unlikely that Otabek really read them. If Yura had been Otabek, he would not have read. In general, he would be convinced that the arms and legs of such an asshole, as he turned out in that story, were broken so that they would never grow together again. Beka still reacted calmly. Beka had done well. Best.

When Plisetskiy stopped stupidly staring at the wall, clutching his phone in his hands still in the form of Julia, and sagged, the first thing he did, he went to Mila. Where else? Could’t he complain to Grandfather ? Grandfather, your trancesexual grandson has just been abandoned by a guy. Caress, will you? So that Babicheva wouldn’t shout, Yura first changed his clothes, collected the “Julia's” clothes and cosmetics and presented them to Milka as an unspoken ban on her “I told you”, which belonged to her by right. Milka seemed to understand the hint. There were no reproaches. All that she said that Yura had a great taste. Clothes were supercool. Yeah, Beck liked it too.

Then Yura whined. He did not roar, but whined, complained about fate and life which was pain and decay. Milka suggested going to some club, finding someone hot and having sex. Plisetskiy said that nobody was hot enough. Babicheva promised that everything would pass, but he still googled: "how to forget the straight." How how? No way. The situation was older than Nikiforov, although it was hard for Yura to imagine. But he constantly remembered how neighing when he read some tearful posts in the LGBT page. Did the radar break? He did not break anything. He knew everything from the very beginning. And he knew how it would end. What's the point? Anyway it was crap. More than then with Vitya.

He met Nikiforov at the Institute. Then he was still not such an old fellow and seemed not such an asshole. He seemed like a god. Like in “Queer as folk”: today I saw God, he had a face ... no, not Brian Kinney's, but Victor's, fuck him, Nikiforov's. Plisetskiy flowed like a bitch in front of a young choreographer, and the young choreographer seemed to stand him out from the crowd, exuded fluids and bent Yura longer than anyone else in the group, although Plisetskiy galloped forward. First there were those glances, Yura's rude flirtation and Nikiforov's juicy and aristocratic one. But, like, they couldn’t. Teacher - student - that was it. It's illegal, blah blah blah. Small, younger, go away, don’t come and fuck it that I look at you in such a way.

Then Victor dumped from the Institute, opened his dance studio. And it became possible. And not a damn thing happened. And not just because of dominated roles in bed. In fact, Yura was not so principled, as he'd said It’s just that Vitya had already laid eyes on the new Jap in the group, and Yura could not stand the second roles. They probably all three understood how things really were, but they kept the official version: two doms couldn't do anything.

Then Yura thought he was worried. Now he understood - all had been bullshit. It’s one thing — some kind of god was there, another was the devil himself. Altin was the devil. With demonic eyes that sucked without a trace. He didn’t even chew. And he didn’t spit out the bones. He took everything. Yura's soul, heart, body and desire to live.  
And ice cream didn't help. And Milka did not help with her twittering. And the clubs and some blowjob from a pretty Uzbek in the toilet of the club for straight people did not help.That dude sucked cool. Professionally. But Plisetskiy did not finish. The eyes were narrow, but not diabolical. He needed the devil's ones.

Grandfather replaced anger with mercy. When the trans grandson fucked up and went into the sunset and the gay grandson returned, it turned out that the gay grandson was better and good enought. Directly it was as the policy of the Russian Federation. Firstto spoil, and then to return, as it was, and everyone was happy. Grandfather baked pies, stroked a dull grandson-gay's head and said that everything would work out, that Yurochka would still meet “that only one”. "The only one". And he didn’t send him to his mother anymore. Grandfather was nice. Yes, and Milka was somehow not bad. She tried her best. True, it did not help.

***

“This is how you need to love dancing in order to go from Lyubertsy to Khimki every day?” had asked Otabek before. Very mucht. Yura was offered a hostel. But leaving grandfather was the last thing. Not so difficult, though not. Complicated. Especially when you had the scheduled methodology of teaching folk dance. Rare garbage. And the professor was a bitch. And then - acting. Also not a gift.

Yura pressed into the door with the inscription “do not lean”, because a new stream of people in that tin can, which used to be a train car, pressed him into the glass and almost broke it. Moreover, he seemed only to be in the middle of the car, but the minute - at the end. And how did it happen? Someone jerked ahead, and a wave hurt everyone. A guy in a leather jacket fell on Plisetskiy, who smelled of ... Your mother! Altin!

Yura looked at Otabek, who was so close that it was easier for them to kiss than not, in all eyes. The Kazakh had a difficult face. Harder than ever. He sucked in air loudly with his nose. Yura swallowed. They flattened again, clinging tightly to each other.

“ I'm sorry”, Beka said, having beat Yura's head with his chin..

Are you sure you are the one who had to apologize, exactly ?!

“My station”, Altin announced, cleverly swapping them and slipping out as soon as the doors opened, and on their part. What the hell, and Yura listened, he would have fucked up on the platform, if not for Otabek.

Otabek.

“Hey, wait!” Plisetskiy jumped out of the train when the doors began to close. He barely had time.

Shit, where did he go? Having run through the crowd of people with his eyes, Yura finally noticed the right figure in his leather jacket. Altin was already climbing the thresholds, which was under the inscription "exit to the city." What's the station by the way? Don't fucking care.

“Beka”, Yura grabbed his hand and turned him toward him at the exit.

What? Kursky Station? Okay. A roundabout was good. From the roundabout, wherever you wanted to get.

“Hands”.

“What?”

“Take off your hands”, Altin hissed, and Yura reluctantly released a piece of leather sleeve.

“Beck. Listen to me”, pleaded Plisetskiy. “I'll just explain everything ... I need ... please”.

“What for?” Otabek spoke calmly, preserving the poker interface, as Lady Gaga ordered, but for some reason the impression was that he was screaming at the entire forecourt.

“I want to explain that I don't ...”

“I've read,” his ex-boyfriend snapped, looking out for someone in the crowd leaving the Kursk Station building. Whom? Date? “ Everything that you've written. I just didn’t want to answer”.

“Forgive me,” Yura shrugged. How dumb, Lord. Here he is standing, the same fucking beautiful and unperturbed one. Close as before. Only one part has changed. He doesn't love anymore. Hates him. “I'm so sorry ... I didn't want to ... like that. I really love ...”

“Shut up, okay ?!” wow. Voice raised. Well, well, Mr. Kazakh Perfection, you are going to be angry. Very sexy growl. It would be in the right direction and .... “I perfectly understand the written text, Yura, “ Yu-rrr-ra. That would sound amazing in bed, yes. “And I've realized that you've stepped, not out of evil, you had feelings and all the crap I'm sorry if you cherish any feelings so far. Forget.”

“ But why?” Do not be foolish, Plisetskiy, shut up. Leave the man alone, you have already broken firewood. Yes, what kind of firewood was there. Sawmill resting. “I'm the same person, Beck! I smell the same, the same to the touch, and kissthe same and love you as well! Come on, just try ....”

People smoking here and there had already begun to turn around. It seemed that someone even moved closer to listen. And fuck. Otabek grabbed Yura by the scruff of his neck and pulled him to his very face, but not to kiss as they would like most, but to bend down and hiss menacingly:

“Yes, Yura. You're right. You smell like my beloved girl. You have the face and eyes of my beloved girl. The voice of my beloved girl and her hair. But. You. Are. NOT. HER. You are the one who's taken her away. And now, fuck off before I hurt you”.

Beka sharply threw him aside, and Yura barely kept his feet.

Yes, he was not Julia. That's for sure. But maybe he was better than Julia. Why don’t you give me a chance? We were together like that, fuck, Beck ...

Yura sat next to some homeless woman and lit a cigarette. The bomzhiha asked for a cigarette. Fuck. Fuck it. Shit. Shit!


	7. Chapter 7

The phone vibrated with a message when Yura was rubbing his grandfather's back with "Comfrey". His loin, then along the spine and between the shoulder blades. 

“Thank you, Yurochka,” said Grandfather. “How are you?”

“It's fine, don't worry,” Yura tried to make his voice cheerful. It did not work out.

They say that in order to forget a person, you need half of the time that you were together. It took twice as long. Two damn months, and Otabek Altin was being dreamt, as if on schedule. Every damn night. And it's impossible couldn't call him. Or write. But something remained unchanged - jerking off on Kazakh’s pictures. Nobody could forbid it. It was also a kind of ritual. At night they quarreled, sometimes they got together, and in the morning they had sex. Almost some relationship. And nothing’s at all, that they were imaginary, was it ?  
Plisetskiy washed his hands thoroughly, reminding himself that it’s not worth scratching his eyes anyway. This ointment was good. Grandpa said it helped. But if you scratched your eyes, even with washed hands, it would still pinch. And the eyes would turn red. And grandfather would decide that Yurochka was crying again. And he hadn’t been doing it for a long time. Almost two weeks ago.

After wiping his hands dry, Yura went into the Vibe, where there was an unread message from his mother, which he had not dared to open for several days. Screw her. Babicheva also sent a massage. She invited for a ride with Igor, who remained Oleg for Plisetskiy. She asked to go with them to buy gifts for the New Year. Well, yes, they could. Only he couldn’t buy some present to her at her presence. For Grandfather if only. Yura didn't want to give anything to anyone else. No, to Nikiforov Yura wanted to give a dead rat, but then he thought that they were unlikely to get to Kosoy Lane with that Muggle Igor-Oleg, and in ordinary human stores they hardly sold dead rats. It would be a pity to mortify soneone alive. And to give alive ... Victor was not worthy after what he had done.  
When Yura found out who exactly had blurted out the truth to Otabek, his life somehow became easier. It was possible to rage at Nikiforov, declare him again an enemy of the people and remove at least a share of the blame from himself. Then one could imagine that the plan for a slow transition from Julia to Yura had every chance of success, and if Victor had not opened his mouth, then he and Beka would have gone to buy gifts together. And for him, Yura would go alone and choose something so fucking awesome that Altin would melt and fall in love with Yura in the boy's body. Nonsense, of course. But the life was a little easier that way. A little bit.  
When Plisetskiy left the entrance to Igor-Oleg's car, Babicheva was already in it. And on him. Diligently she was shoving her tongue into Igor-Oleg's mouth. Yura snorted. Assholes they were. All of them. He could, too ... And he can't. Can't be with anyone else. Fucking obsession. Vitya said that, if you loved someone really, then on others it is not worth it. Yura was laughing. But now... 

Plisetskiy grunted "hello" and climbed into the back seat. Igor-Oleg said that they would first call in to “change their shoes,” and then to the shopping center.

“Mid-December, are you on summer tires?” muttered Plisetskiy displeased, as if Igor-Oleg owed him personally.

“Have you seen the weather?” he responded. “Rains since October. It's only starts freezing. Was it meaningful?”

“This is heaven crying for your unrequited love,” Babicheva giggled.

“They are crying over your terrible face” Yura snapped.

“Hey! Hey!” objected Igor-Oleg.

“Not on horseback,” Yura snorted.

And Otabek was on a horse. On the iron one, really. But on the real one, probably, he could too. Wel,l that was Otabek. Ancestral blood after all. Surely he could have been on horseback.

It won't passed away. Never.

The forums advised to get rid of all the things of the one with whom he had parted. Some kind of nonsense! Yura had an Otabek’s hoody. Black with a white triangle. Beck dressed Julia in it when they were walking at night, and it became cold. Julia had never returned it. And not because of a girl's memory. There were also dried flowers, one from each bouquet that Altin had given. And he always gave different ones. A whole herbarium turned out in a month. And a plush tiger. And the pictures. From the rink. And a bunch of others. How to get rid of this? Those were treasures.

The forums said to be distracted you should not think about the object of your desire . How not to think when it was thought itself? And if during the day there were still norms, you could be distracted, but at night? It was awful. And in the morning ... Waking up with a risen cock. And imagining Beck, growling "Yu-r-r-ra".

In short, the forums advised some kind of shit. And Milka did. And everything was lousy. It became even worse when Otabek met them at the car service. And some other non-Russian devil, similar to Otabek, only taller and larger. And he was not as fucking hot, because none couldn't be as fucking hot as Otabek.

“Beck?” asked the non-Russian devil, staring at Plisetskiy with all his eyes. “ He…”

“Yura,” answered Otabek, who looked no less surprised by the meeting.

“And he is…?”

“Brother. This is Julia's brother,” said Beka and burned a hole in Yura.

“A twin, or what?” the non-Russian devil turned to Yura.

“Yes, we are twins.” Yura croaked.

Yes, probably, Beka did not tell the reason why he had broken up with Julia. Yura would not say either. Nobody would have said. Milka was looking at the disassembled engine with interest, afraid to look at Otabek, although Otabek did not know her, but, apparently, Milka was ashamed that she was indirectly involved.

Igor-Oleg asked about the rubber. He was told that everything would be done. Yura could no longer stand the demonic eyes and left, saying that he would wait for outside. But why the hell did they come there? Are there not enough car services in Moscow? However, neither Yura, nor Julia had ever visited Altin's work. 

Plisetskiy was standing at the entrance, picking the curb with his toe and smoking a cigarette. The non-Russian devil came out of the building. He introduced himself as Daniyar. Oh, exactly. The elder brother. Beck told Julia. Daniyar lit a cigarette.

“What’s happened between them, don't you know?” he asked.

“What?”

“With your sister. He loved her so much, and then once - that's all. And he doesn't tell anything. It's a pity to watch it. Has she cheated or what?”

Yura raised his eyes to him. Daniyar was in a huge jacket, almost a sweatshirt. A blue jumpsuit peeped out from under it. Like Mario. Beck had one too. But Beck was not like Mario. He looked like a porno actor in that blue jumpsuit and fuel oil. God fix me!

“She’s just an idiot,” Yura said at last. “Finished.”

“A girl doesn't have to be smart,” Daniyar grunted, blowing smoke from his nose. “My wife is a very smart, I know what I'm talking about,” he smiled good-naturedly. “ So what? Can't we reconcile them? He really liked her ..”.

“Hardly,” replied Plisetskiy. “I'd like to too… but… she’s really screwed up.”

“Well, okay, “ Daniyar shrugged his shoulders and threw the rest of the cigarette into the bin. “You and her are… very similar. True, I only saw your sister in pictures. But from the pictures ... Um, don't be offended, I just ...” he hesitated. “How do you live with such a face?Are you being bullied?”

“ I run fast,” Yura responded sadly.

“Well, okay. Okay, come on, kid.”

“Yeah.”

When Igor-Oleg and Mila returned, Yura had already managed to get wet in that nasty drizzle. So he wanted to go to Beka, to say goodbye. To hug him tightly. To say again that he was better than Julia, because he is real. But it was pointless. It was all pointless. The New Year, the gifts. Igor-Oleg, shoving his tongue into Babicheva's mouth. And the message from Mother in unread. It was as meaningless as if Yura had read it. Nothing would change.

**Author's Note:**

> *Julya (Julia) girl’s name In Russian sounds like Yura


End file.
